Reborn as a Hanged Loser?

A piercing headache woke Lucan, as if someone was drilling into his temples relentlessly. With the pain came clarity.

Beyond the throbbing in his head, a constricting sensation gripped his neck. He found himself with his head through a noose, dangling mid-air.

This is it, I'm really dying.

The last vestiges of air in his lungs were fading fast. With what strength he had left, Lucan grasped the rope above his head and swung violently.

Thud. The rope snapped, and Lucan crashed to the ground.

"Close call. Lucky to be alive," Lucan muttered to himself. But something was wrong. Wasn't I just sleeping soundly at home? How did I end up hanging from a rope?!

As his brain received a proper blood supply, the realization hit him.

Touching himself, he noticed he was wearing a linen shirt, not the synthetic pajamas he fell asleep in.

Drenched in sweat as if just fished out of a river, the buzzing of cicadas and the oppressive heat were relentless reminders that it must be summer.

The room was dimly lit, but thanks to the light from the window, Lucan could make out his surroundings.

To the left, near the window, stood a single desk made of yellow peach wood, piled with hardcover books, a bottle of black ink capped with a wooden stopper, and a few steel pens standing in a light brown bamboo holder.

On the edge of the desk rested a brass candlestick, with a half-burnt candle stuck in it.

Propping himself up on the bed, Lucan placed his feet on the cool floorboards. The realness of the sensation confirmed this wasn't a dream. He slowly made his way to the window, craving the light.

The darkness in front of him obscured much, but he could just make out the outline of a small building opposite. The sole light source was the moon, hanging obliquely above in the sky.

Lucan looked up, trying to guess the date by the moon's phase.

In the leaden night sky hung a rose-colored full moon, about the size of a coconut, with a pale blue crescent moon floating above it.

Two moons! This was not the Earth he knew. Lucan's jaw dropped in astonishment.

Had he really crossed into another world? Although a fan of transmigration novels, experiencing such a cliché firsthand was overwhelming.

Stay calm, don't panic. He had read enough transmigration literature to formulate three key tactics to turn the tables.

Who am I? Where am I? What should I do? The philosophical trifecta.

These were the first steps Lucan had distilled from countless novels about crossing into other worlds.

He started to search for clues about his identity, glancing around.

Beside him was the candlestick, and to its left, a brass box. Inside, he found matches with red phosphorus heads.

Striking one against the rough wall, it ignited with a fizz. The small orange flame brought light back to the room.

The room was compact. A single bed occupied most of the space, a red wooden door faced the bed, and along the wall to the left stood a wardrobe with a glass mirror.

To the right was a small square table cluttered with white teacups, a wooden box, and underneath, an iron stove with a copper kettle above it, surrounded by scattered lumps of coal.

Holding the candlestick, Lucan approached the wardrobe. The candlelight revealed a reflection of a man with short brown hair, green eyes, a prominent nose, deep contours, a sharply pointed chin, and wheatish skin – a figure seemingly plucked from an old movie, a frail scholar.

Memories not his own flickered through his mind like a slideshow, helping him understand this body's past.

Elyon. Sasson, 21 years old, born in the northern region of the Bruge Kingdom on the Western Continent, the second son of a modest farm owner.

A senior student at the National University's Grammar Department in the capital city of Aegsburg.

His father, a former junior officer in the army, retired with the rank of captain and used his savings and pension to manage a farm on the outskirts of the city.

His mother, the only daughter of a small merchant, and his older brother helped manage the farm. He also had two younger sisters attending the church school.

By 21st-century Earth standards, their family was middle-class. On this planet, where industry and technology were still in infancy, they were comfortably well-off, thanks largely to a sizeable inheritance from his maternal grandfather.

This couldn't be a dream, could it? While Lucan occasionally fantasized about transmigration, he felt unprepared now that it was his reality.

The sensation of his feet on the wooden floor and the suffocating heat reminded Lucan that this was all happening to him.

"Ouch," he yelped as a sharp pain shot through his foot. He'd stepped on something smooth and hard.

Setting the candlestick on the floor, he inspected the culprit: a light-colored seashell. Fortunately, it wasn't shattered; otherwise, his sole would be filled with shell fragments.

Beside the seashell was a familiar-looking circle drawn in black ink on the floor, featuring a six-pointed star.

No way, this was the same transference ritual he'd drawn days ago. A chill ran through him. Why would someone else in this world be drawing the same thing?

Frantically, he turned to the pile of books on the desk, hoping to find some clues. Their script resembled ancient Babylonian cuneiform but was actually written in the common tongue of the Western Continent, akin to Latin during the European Renaissance – readable to any well-educated Brugean.

Lucan could understand the contents thanks to the memories of the body's original owner. They were mostly about legal codes and how to draft official documents – evidently, the original owner's textbooks.

Next to the textbooks was a stack of papers and a bilingual dictionary between Brugean and the common language.

He sifted through the dictionary and found a freshly copied sheet of paper. The handwriting was messy, but Lucan immediately recognized the characters.

The title was in traditional characters, incongruous beside the common tongue's rounder letters. Just seven words struck Lucan like lightning.

The Ritual of Otherworld Summoning.

Summoned from another world? Should he now say:

"Lucan, the Earthling slacker summoned at your command, are you my master?" he mused sarcastically.

Unfortunately, the ritual only summoned the soul, not the body; otherwise, he'd be here with his 140-pound frame, not inhabiting the original owner's body.

The summoning ritual's content was written in the common tongue, identical to the transference ceremony he performed at home. Gather the four elements, draw the corresponding magic circles, and chant the incantations – and the ritual was complete.

Despite the existence of a suspected magical ceremony, this planet still seemed reliant on technological advancements for progress.

Comparing it to Earth, the technology was reminiscent of the industrial era of the 19th century.

Steam engines had spurred industrialization, leading to early light industries centered around textiles, as well as heavy industries like steel manufacturing. Elyon had traveled to Aegsburg by steam train, a luxury in a powerful nation like Bruge with rail connections between major cities.

In Aegsburg, where he studied, horse-drawn carriages still dominated the streets, suggesting that internal combustion engines were either undeveloped or still confined to labs.

Electricity? He looked at the candlestick. Electric power seemed to be used only for communication, with telegraphy still a costly affair.

Wireless telegraphy was likely exclusive to transoceanic vessels, with the tall masts once for sails now serving as radio antennas.

Lucan was in a world where steam and the extraordinary coexisted. Was this misfortune or luck? Lucan questioned himself internally.